Death of a Murderer (15 page)

27

During the weeks that followed Trevor’s death, and prompted at least in part by his unfinished conversation with Trevor’s brother, Billy had found himself researching the murders, casually at first, but then with increasing vigour and intensity. He was curious to see whether there were any references to children who had got away—and, oddly enough, he found one: a boy called Sammy whose photograph had turned up among the murderers’ possessions subsequent to their arrest. There was no mention of a Trevor Lydgate, however, nor was there any suggestion that other children had had narrow escapes. But if there had been one, then surely it was possible…As a result, Billy had to ask himself why he had doubted the story in the first place. Partly, he supposed, because it was so extraordinary. To fall into the clutches of two such dangerous people and yet live to tell the tale. To be lured into that house—actually
into the house
—and then to make a getaway. It sounded like a bizarre fantasy, or a much embroidered version of a far less terrifying event. Which brought him to the second reason for his scepticism. At some level he thought that what he had heard had all the trappings of a story that was being told to cover another story, one that had to remain secret. There might well be three stories, then: the story Trevor had told his parents—
I got lost
—the one he told his wife, his brother, and his childhood friend—
I was abducted
—and the one he kept to himself, or even, possibly, hid from himself. This third story had never been revealed, probably because it was too close to home. Perhaps it even involved members of his family. The advantage of the version he had told Billy was that it allowed him to unburden himself without actually giving anything away.

At the time, the details had seemed authentic enough, but Trevor could easily have invented them. Billy wouldn’t have known the difference, nor would most people. Equally, Trevor could have gleaned certain facts from newspapers, or documentaries, or one of the innumerable books written on the subject, and then, over the years, he could have internalised those facts, made them his own. The motorbike, the wig—the cigarette-machine…If Billy’s theory was correct, it showed how deeply that series of murders had embedded itself in the nation’s psyche. No one who had been alive at the time could ever be entirely free of it. It was one of those rare news items against which you defined yourself.

When Billy visited the moors just before the millennium, he had been attempting to put Trevor’s story into some sort of context—the very one that Trevor himself had claimed for it—but his journey had also been undertaken in a spirit of recognition. In a sense, he had been demonstrating solidarity, paying tribute. The pictures of the murdered children that appeared in the papers looked like the pictures his mother had taken of him and Charlie when they were little—the same dated black-and-white, all shadows and smudges, an eerily prophetic pattern of erasure and concealment. Those children belonged to the same generation as he did. They were his exact contemporaries. We were all damaged by what happened, he thought. We were all changed.

28

Imagining he heard a sound outside, Billy moved across the mortuary and listened at the doors, then he undid the locks, pulled the right-hand door open and put his head into the gap. It was late now, after three in the morning, and the corridor had a deep stillness, an almost supernatural hush: if he had seen a fish sliding soundlessly through that watery green air, somehow he wouldn’t have been surprised—or the boy in the black swimming-trunks, his skinny body doubled over, hair dripping…As Billy stood in the doorway, Raymond’s voice came to him, Raymond in that pub in Cheshire, talking to the beautiful girl.
I almost drowned him once.

There were people things happened to. Billy knew that because he’d been one of them himself—for a while, anyway. The boy in the swimming-trunks had been another. So, for that matter, had Trevor Lydgate. What was the quality they shared? Were they unlucky, or naive, or were they simply weak? He couldn’t decide. Nowadays, of course, they would be called victims. Not a word you’d ever think of applying to Raymond.

Halfway through their European holiday, while they were exploring the chilly, urine-scented passageways of the Colosseum, Raymond started telling Billy about the next stop on their itinerary. There were some volcanic lakes to the north of the city, apparently, where Roman emperors used to bathe. He thought these lakes ought to be worth a visit.

They caught a train to Bracciano, then hitched a ride in a lorry that was loaded with gravel. The man behind the wheel had bloodshot eyes and stubble. As he drove he drank red wine from a huge, clear, pear-shaped bottle. A piece of rolled-up rag served as a cork. He offered Raymond and Billy the bottle, and because it seemed expected they had several large gulps each. The wine was inky and brackish; Billy was sure he could taste the man’s saliva.
“Grazie tanto, signore,”
Raymond said as he handed the bottle back.
“Molto gentile.”
The lorry-driver grunted, then spat out of the window.

They had to walk the last two miles down a white track, and before too long their shoes were pale with dust.
“Una strada bianca,”
Raymond said, half to himself. Billy wondered where Raymond had learned the language. They didn’t teach Italian at school.

The sky had clouded over, but it was hot, and the cicadas were so loud that Billy felt as if they were actually inside his head. He hurled a stone at the trees, and the chattering stopped abruptly. Just as he was about to congratulate himself, though, it all started up again, even louder and more grating than before. He glanced at Raymond, but Raymond seemed quite oblivious, his hands in his trouser pockets, his fedora tilted jauntily over one eye. He had picked a purple flower, Billy noticed, and threaded it through his lapel.

After about an hour, they saw the lake below them, away to their left. From above, it looked circular, and hard as well, somehow. Like a lid. A path curved steeply down through dusty woods. At the top two cars were parked side by side. One had its headlights on, which Billy found slightly sinister.

Raymond set off down the path, and Billy followed, the trees offering some welcome coolness. Billy paused to remove his shoes and socks. After taking a few steps in bare feet, he called out to Raymond.

“It’s so soft, like powder. You should try it.”

Raymond glanced at him over his shoulder, but kept going.

At the bottom of the hill they came out on to a wide, pale-yellow beach. They appeared to be the only people there. Perhaps the weather was too cloudy for the locals, Billy thought—or perhaps they were all indoors, having siestas. He could see no houses, though, not even one. The place excited him, and he was glad Raymond had suggested it.

“This is great,” he shouted.

He rolled up his trousers and walked slowly into the lake. The water seemed sensitive, as if every movement that he made could be felt out in the middle, and on the far shore too. At the same time, it had a stealthy quality, a kind of silkiness. Something to do with volcanic ash, no doubt. Or lava. Hearing a cry, he turned round. Raymond was waving from further along the beach. He was trying to drag a boat down to the water and needed Billy’s help.

The boat was a miniature catamaran, with two moulded plastic seats and two sets of pedals. Though rusty, it looked as if it might still work. Taking one side each, they pushed it into the lake, then scrambled on board and started pedalling. The sky seemed lower now, and strangely green; the day had darkened. Billy wondered whether there was going to be a storm. What if lightning struck the water? Would they be killed? He wiped the sweat from his forehead.

“It’s hot, isn’t it?” he said.

Raymond took off his suit jacket and draped it over the back of his seat. “Why don’t you have a dip?”

Billy eyed the surface of the lake, opaque, impenetrable. They were a long way from the shore. Though he was still sweating, a shiver passed through him. “I don’t really like deep water,” he said. “I never have.”

“Just lower yourself over the side,” Raymond said, “and then hold on. You’ll be fine.”

Billy wasn’t sure.

“It’ll cool you down, won’t it?” Raymond said. “And when you’ve had enough, you can climb back into the boat.”

Billy nodded slowly. “I suppose so.”

As he undressed, he was aware of Raymond watching, and he felt embarrassed by his body, so big and white and clumsy. He hurriedly stowed his T-shirt and jeans behind his seat, then, wearing nothing but a pair of Y-fronts, lowered himself backwards into the lake. He gasped with shock and pleasure as the water took hold of him. It was colder out here in the middle, far colder than he’d imagined.

He gripped the side of the boat with both hands, as Raymond had suggested. It wasn’t easy. The wet plastic was smooth, slippery.

“It’s fantastic, Raymond,” he said in a voice made thin and breathy by the cold. “You should come in too.”

“Why don’t you swim?” Raymond said. “That’s what the Roman emperors did.”

“All right.”

As soon as Billy let go, Raymond began to pedal away from him.

“Raymond?” he called out. “What are you doing?” The gap between Billy and the pedalo was widening, and he knew he had no chance of closing it. He’d never been much of a swimmer. “Come back.”

Raymond was looking at him over his shoulder, but he was still pedalling.

“Please,” Billy said. “I’m not joking.”

The water in front of him had a terrible blackness to it, and he couldn’t allow himself to think about what might be under there, or how deep the lake might be. His chest had tightened: he couldn’t breathe properly. He stopped trying to swim, but treading water felt worse. He saw his body dangling, as if from below. It was the point of view of something that lived on the bottom—or something that had died.

His legs were moving in slow-motion; they were slender, feeble, pale as roots.

“Raymond! Please!”

Water poured into his mouth.

Gradually, the pedalo swung round until Raymond was facing him again, but Raymond’s eyes had no light in them, no feeling. They looked flat, like bits of paper; if you poked one with a finger it would tear, and there’d be nothing behind the hole, just darkness.

Choking, Billy sank below the surface, then rose again and found some air. Thirty feet away, the boat sat on the lake. It seemed higher than Billy, as if the water had a gradient to it, as if it sloped uphill. The splashing sounds that he was making took place in a vast, bored silence, and would soon be swallowed by it.

Then, with a certain reluctance, Raymond started pedalling towards him. At last, Billy was able to grab hold of the side and haul himself back into the boat. Wrapping his arms around himself, he hunched over in the seat. Despite the heat, he was shivering.

“You bastard,” he said in a low voice.

But Raymond was staring at the trees on the far shore. He appeared not to have heard.

“Bastard,” Billy said again.

Raymond reached behind the seat for Billy’s T-shirt. “Here. Put this on.”

“What did you do that for?” Billy said. “I could have drowned.”

Raymond smiled. “Let’s go and get something to drink.” He glanced over his shoulder, back towards the beach. “There was a little bar there. Did you see?”

The moment when Billy could have hit him was already gone. Instead, he lapsed into a sullen silence, hardly bothering to pedal, which meant that Raymond had to do most of the work. After a while, Billy began to feel as if he was the one in the wrong. That was the thing about Raymond. He had this uncanny knack of turning everything on its head. And before Billy knew it, gratitude was lifting through him. He was grateful to have been included in Raymond’s new initiative, and for the hint of affection that he had detected in Raymond’s voice.
Did you see?

Looking at the shore, he noticed a wooden hut or kiosk set back in the shadow of the trees. Above the open hatch was a faded Campari sign. At the front, on the sand, were several benches and trestle tables, the wood buckled, silver-grey. Once they had hauled the pedalo out of the water, Raymond and Billy walked over to the hut where a man in a soiled white vest sold them two bottles of lemon soda. They both drank thirstily.

When they turned to go, three other men were standing on the beach, no more than fifteen feet away. They wore shabby, colourless clothing, and their faces were dark from the sun.

Raymond started speaking in Italian, but one of the men talked over him. He kept his eyes fixed on Raymond, though he seemed to be addressing the men behind him, and his voice sounded dismissive, contemptuous. Every now and then, he would punctuate his speech with abrupt, violent gestures that Billy didn’t understand. Perhaps he and Raymond were trespassing—or perhaps the men owned that little boat…Though the man was still talking, Raymond had moved off along the beach, making for the path that led back up the hill. He kept his head down and walked quickly. Billy took one last look at the three men, then hurried after him.

Halfway to the path, Billy heard a sound behind him and turned round.

“Raymond?” he said in a shaky voice.

The three men had surrounded the man in the dirty vest, and they were punching him. Though it was happening about a hundred yards away, Billy could hear the blows—solid, weighty, dull, like somebody beating a carpet. As he watched, the man in the vest dropped to his knees, but the other men kept hitting him, taking it in turns. It was all amazingly slow and deliberate.

“Keep going,” Raymond said.

But Billy was still hesitating. “Shouldn’t we do something?”

“Don’t be a fool.”

Once they had entered the woods, Raymond spoke again. “They thought we were queer.”

“What?” Billy’s voice was almost shrill. “That’s ridiculous.” They were both panting as they climbed the hill, the sandy soil working against them now. Billy glanced over his shoulder. “Do you think they’ll come after us?”

Raymond didn’t answer.

When they reached the top, the cars were still there. The one on the right had its lights on, as before. It was at least two miles to the road, but Billy and Raymond had no choice. They began to walk.

A white crack showed briefly above the high ground to the south. Lightning. Billy counted the seconds, bracing himself for thunder. None came. But the air seemed to have thickened all around them.

They had only been on the track for a few minutes when Billy heard the cars. First one engine started, then the other. He sent Raymond a wild look. “It’s them!”

Raymond didn’t react.

With a cry, Billy plunged down a bank of stiff yellow grass into the undergrowth. He lay on his stomach and covered his head with his hands. The cars slowed down, as he had known they would. He heard Raymond’s voice, then another voice. A man’s. A door slammed. The cars both revved savagely, and then drove on.

When the sound of their engines had died away, Billy climbed cautiously back up the grass bank. The track was empty. Raymond had gone.

Panic and helplessness prevented him from doing anything at all for quite some time. The sky seemed to heap itself on top of him. Sweat stuck his T-shirt to his back. In the end, he realised there was nothing for it but to carry on towards the road. Certainly he wasn’t about to go back to the lake. He would have to hitch a lift into the nearest town and report the incident to the police. It wasn’t going to be easy because he didn’t speak the language. He didn’t know what the Italian for “car” was, for instance. He didn’t even know the word for “man.”

“Impossible,” he said out loud.

His voice sounded weak in the harsh landscape.

As he trudged along, his mind began to fill with all kinds of scenarios. Raymond had been kidnapped—but what for? The men would rob him at the very least. He might be beaten up as well, or even killed.

Billy imagined Raymond’s gangster hat lying upside-down on a deserted road.

Though it was starting to get dark by the time he reached the end of the track, it didn’t seem any cooler. He stood still for a moment, trying to remember which way they had come. To his right, on a bend in the road, he saw a cluster of lights. It looked like a restaurant. Perhaps he would find help there.

When he pushed the door open, he saw Raymond sitting at a table by the wall, eating a pizza. Billy was so astonished that he couldn’t speak.

Raymond glanced up. “You took your time.” He was chewing with such relish that knots of muscle showed beside his ears. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“Yes, but what happened?”

“I got a lift.” Raymond laughed. “You didn’t think I was going to
walk,
did you?” He drank from a tall glass, then reached for another slice of pizza.

“But the men—those men—”

“What men?”

“The ones on the beach.”

It turned out that they hadn’t been involved at all. The cars belonged to a group of young Romans who had been taking drugs in the woods. Raymond had flagged them down and then smoked a joint with them. They had stopped at the restaurant because they were starving.

“They only left about five minutes ago,” Raymond said. “Jesus, this pizza’s good.”

Billy shook his head. “I’m such an idiot.”